I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.

I do still love them so. And this fandom.

Into the Wild

Into the Village


October is waning on in the tucked away little valley that resides that one day will be Vanceburg, Kentucky.

The season is almost done.

Cooling air a harbinger of the long, cold winter months ahead.

The Lenape keep no calendar, these people of the earth.

They track the skies, the movements of the animals, the goings-on of nature.

And Alice, having relinquishing the trained necessity of keeping clocks and calendars and dates and times, finds she does not miss it.

These constructs once having been so important to her.

Minutes, she counted by the clocks in the halls. Hours spent learning to sew.

Specific days set for solemn family gatherings, silly girlish excursions.

Celebrated, anticipated days for . . .

"Uncas, when were you born?"

"In the spring."

. . . birthdays and anniversaries and other such celebrations.

And now, there is so much less to consider.

And quite that much more.


They have come to the village with nearly nothing, the three of them.

The clothes on their backs, items in their possible bags.

Weapons upon their persons.

And though the Delaware do not horde collections of material possessions, do not own and furnish vast estates handed down throughout generations primarily for the purpose of displaying wealth and power and self-importance, each and every citizen of the village has something Alice and the Mohicans with whom she has traveled do not.

A dwelling.

A shelter.

A home.

And Alice . . .

"Do we remain out of doors as we have? Do we stay with others?"

. . . is uncertain.

She does not know the customs, does not know the way of things here.

But Uncas does.

"All will be provided."

And she knows . . .

"You will see."

. . . that she trusts him.


They have been invited into one of the longhouses.

Uncas. Alice.

Chinagachgook.

Sat before the fire.

Communed and reposed with others that have joined them.

Chingachgook has told their tales, Uncas puncuating here and there as he may.

Alice, still without a comfort of confidence, sitting quietly by and contenting herself to listen to her Wètuxëmùksit's voice.

That also of her lover, his son.

Looking to him, the warmth of his gaze, his nearness strengthening her.

They have slept close that night.

His arm around her, breath upon her neck.

And they had slept.

Only slept.

And that is good. She has been worn tired by her care.

And so that is alright.

For now.

And with the rising of the sun and the breaking of their fast, she has begun . . .

"It is safe here, Wënichana."

. . . to walk about on her own.


The Lenape are diligent workers.

Everyone finding a place for themselves, something to be done for the benefit of their own, and of the village.

Some of the men repairing, shoring up the sides, the roof of a longhouse.

She sees them working together. One kneeling on the ground, mending a thatched mat.

A second standing, lifting a prepared mat up to the third above him.

Perched on the side of the structure, perched as a bird.

Yet deftly taking that which is handed to him.

And beginning to secure it to the roof upon which he teeters.

Other men that have left to hunt, fish.

Together, apart.

Returning with game.

Cleaning and skinning their kills.

Some setting themselves to cure the hides, brush the furs.

Make them soft and supple, a warm comfort for the oncoming chill of winter.

Still others working to salt the meat itself. Some to smoke it.

Deer. Rabbit. Bear. Elk.

Cleaned and skinned carcasses, parts of carcasses, hanging on racks over cookfires made aromatic by applewood and other herbs.

Later the meat cut off the bones, sliced into strips that will pleasantly flavor the tongue and fill the empty belly.

The women gather the crops they have planted in natural fields with no fences to separate ownership of one from another.

Life-sustaining food, these crops.

Naxa Witkuxkuwàk, Uncas has called them.

The Three Sisters.

Beans, squash.

Corn the most prevalent.

Ears picked and laid on mats to dry in the sun.

Kernels ground into meal.

Pressed into flat bread-like pieces.

Some set aside for eating.

Some placed deep into covered pits lined with grass to keep out rot and spoil.

They must eat to satisfy the hunger in their bellies now.

And store what they can and how they must.

Because they know there will be more hunger to come in the months ahead.

And so they work with that knowledge and understanding, an eye on the clouds, the sun.

And on the earth. The animals that may sneak in to come and take of their gathered food.

Squirrels, rabbits.

Bugs and all manner of creeping thing.

The women work, the men work.

Their smiles and laughter and equanimity of spirit with one another easy.

Quiet as well, as they so choose

And the children, so unlike the children of the settlers she has known.

Loved, yes. Cared for, yes.

Boys and girls, dressed much as their parents.

Caramel skin and black flowing hair.

But these able to be free, so very free.

Unencumbered by the constant choring of the frontier children she has seen thus far.

Not individual families for themselves.

But the entire community working together for the good of the whole.

And thusly it is not necessitated for the children to work long hours at tedious, repetitive chores.

They are instead allowed to run and play and chase and laugh.

Not so many of them there are.

Not the three to four to five to six of the settler families.

But, so far as she can surmise, one to two to three at most per mother and father.

And she wonders.

She sees them, the children.

Older keeping watch over the younger.

Here and there amongst the men and women.

Stopping to watch, to touch, to learn.

The weaving of grass mats. The tanning of hides.

Stories of nature, they sit and hear.

Growing in the understanding of life within the valley.

The history of their families. The beliefs they learn to hold dear.

Then up and running away again.

To play, to laughingly chase squirrels away from drying fruit and vegetable and nut.

Carry a basket of beans for this mother, a bowl of paint for that father.

The gentle touch of those they come across, the warm voices.

All of this and more, she sees.

A harmony and rhythm to the life of the village that is organic in this world and soothing to her spirit.

And Alice, a breed apart from them, does not quite know what to do with herself as she wanders.

These Delaware people have not shown themselves apt to include or disclude her.

Rather allowing her to do as she so wishes.

Apply herself as she may.

Whatever that may be for her.

And so she has wandered.

Looking. Watching.

But not speaking.

Not approaching.

Until . . .

Ah. So that is how it is done.


Hello, wonderful ones!

I sincerely apologize for the lapse in posting. It was completely unintentional and brought on by the real world capturing my creativity and shaking it by the throat.

I mean, the general state of the world sucks and it got to me.

Anyway, I'm back and with a whole slew of new chapters for you to enjoy! Including this one, I hope. :D

Also, if you are looking for chapter 48, this is it. There is some glitch in the system that chapter 48 was not showing up. The chapter before this is called The Girl Who Was Too Pale. Also chapter 49 is the next chapter called, That Is All.

Thanks to BlueSaffire for helping me get back on track and for blanparbe for kindly beseeching me to get my ass in gear.

Thanks also to MedicineGal815, MohawkWoman, Maria Madalena, BlueSaffire, BrynnaRaven, blanparbe, AsterLaurel, Midge, DinahRay, and ELY72 for taking the time to review.

Thanks also to Romeo's Juliette for adding your support to this wandering tale.